


in first light

by je_suis



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, First Time, Found Family, Free Folk Jon, Ghost (ASoIAF) is a Good Boy, Grieving Jon Snow, Happy Ending, I hated season 8 but, Insomnia, Jon Snow Needs a Hug, Mutual Pining, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Protective Tormund Giantsbane, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Tormund is a Softie, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 18:42:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19796776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/je_suis/pseuds/je_suis
Summary: "The north is too harsh to let things remain unspoken, little crow," bushy red brows create craters on Tormund's face, "With the Night's King dead, the Free Folk aren't in need of a commander anymore."Jon looks over the ice. Its calm twinkling a stark contrast to the storm in his heart. He can't help but wonder, if there is no war,is there really a place for him?





	in first light

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm a slow writer and have been writing this since the finale, but we done did it. 
> 
> unbeta'd and unchained bb, I will die on this unedited hill. enjoy!

The wind picks up loose snow in a hazy mist across the open plains. Jon pulls his furs tighter around his shoulders, hoping that with the fire, it would be enough to ward the chill. In the night sky, the full moon stays unblinking, reflecting light off the snow and casting the camp in a cyan glow. His eyes flit across a variety of tents that flap with the breeze, hoping that everyone inside was warm enough. He supposed those of the true north were used to these biting conditions. If Jon were to daydream, maybe one day he could become accustomed to them, too. The black fur across his shoulders suddenly felt waterlogged as the breath left him. 

In the distance, Jon spots Ghost with his head poking out past the tent flaps. No doubt Tormund would wake up and grumble at the direwolf for being an arse and letting out all the warmth. Jon smiled despite the chill in his cheeks. 

The journey had been difficult so far. Hardhome and the other wildling settlements were much harder to get back to with tired Free Folk, battle shot and yearning for peace. More difficult than getting them to The Wall in the first place. Everyone's patience was being tested daily, and the north was unforgiving, especially to weary travelers. Swiftly, John added another log to the fire, letting his hands linger a bit too long near the flame, until the heat tickled his fingertips. 

Soon, the sun would rise just above the horizon, to begin washing away silvery blue moonlight with fiery orange rays. With daybreak, the camp would pack up again and move onward, towards home. 

Tormund joins him by the time the Free Folk finish taking down their wares, shuffling tents, food, and ale into packs. Jon can feel the ache in his palms from pulling ropes all morning, as well as the sting in his eyes from the smoke of the dying fire. Most of the work was done, the only thing left was placing the youngest children on the horses to ride out. 

"You didn't sleep last night, Snow." Tormund's voice is gruff, so different from the high keen of the wind that snapped around them. 

Jon laughs, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the peeking sun, "Maybe I slept through all your snoring." 

When Jon looks over, Tormund's mouth is set in a hard line. The warm light sets his red hair aflame as it tussles in the wind. Bright blue eyes are chillier than the landscape, yet they burn. Jon's next inhale brings warmth to his chest. 

"When I went to sleep, Ghost was in my tent. When I woke he was still there." 

With a tense jaw and a weak smile, Jon exhales, "He just likes you better." 

"The north is too harsh to let things remain unspoken, little crow," bushy red brows create craters on Tormund's face, "With the Night's King dead, the Free Folk aren't in need of a commander anymore." 

Jon looks over the ice. Its calm twinkling a stark contrast to the storm in his heart. He can't help but wonder, if there is no war, _is there really a place for him?_

As the horde steadily goes north, the day turns out to be worse than the night. Looming clouds darker than his cloak forebode a blizzard; one too strong for hastily set camps and weak fires. Those who have had a cough the past few nights might not make it to their next morning. Jon keeps walking, looking towards the mountains in the distance. Dark crevices in the leeward side are like taunting mouths, teasing shelter and hope, while his feet struggle to trudge through the snow, his steps leave valleys in his wake. 

Ghost nudges Jon's arm. The direwolf's red gaze focused on the woods barely a league away. With a hand scratching behind the remaining white ear, Jon pushes Tormund with his shoulder. 

"We could camp there." 

They both look at the reaching branches, like fingers scratching the skies, and Jon waits with bated breath. All of the Free folk could keep on walking, lest the storm came quick, they'd be trapped. Or, they could camp soon to brace themselves for a snow that would never come. His hand sunk further into Ghost's fur, the heat bleeding through Jon's leather glove. 

"It'll provide cover from the blizzard." Tormund says, keeping his eyes on the wood. 

Jon can't help but feel like he can breathe again. As they walk side-by-side, he stares at the hard line of Tormund's nose and the equally harsh frown of the lips under that fiery beard. 

"People have been getting sick," he says, hoping to fill the silence. 

"Aye, we'll brew some of the slippery elm tonight and hope to nip any illness before it gets worse." 

The winds are picking up speed. Biting chill sweeps through Jon's furs, and he can only imagine how the rest of the Free Folk feel. He ponders if this is just some inconvenience, or if their bodies feel like living ice against the breath of the North. 

"We should share tents tonight. Need to keep all the heat." 

Jon hummed first, not trusting his voice to stay steady. "Perhaps, if the people can stand to be so near each other." 

"Better than being dead, Snow," Tormund huffed. "And, maybe if you're warm enough, you'll sleep for once." 

"Maybe," but Jon knew that it wasn't the cold that kept him from sleeping. 

It was the warmth fading from Dany's body as the knife stuck out of her chest, her eyes losing the shimmer he had fallen in love with. It was the humid stench of his cell as he wished for his trial to come sooner, so he could stop closing his eyes and seeing all the ways he had failed. He could still smell the burnt flesh of the people of King's Landing. How he knew that when they died, all those women, and children, and men who surrendered, would go to that same endless nothing that was the God of Death's cruel hand. The scars on his chest burned like fresh wounds, festering under his ribs like wildfire. 

_No, it was not the cold that kept him from sleeping at all._

Jon and Tormund had just finished going over the last day of their pilgrimage with the other leaders when the skies changed. The camp had been set up over an hour ago, tea had already made its rounds, and people were gathered in their shelters. As planned, the trees were taking the brunt of the winds, and shook wildly as if in protest. 

The tents were fewer this time, most of the effort being put in making them sturdy. Families were bunched together, laughing shadows splayed on the snow covered ground around them. As Jon stepped over fire wood, a weight collides into the back of his knees, nearly pitching him forward. 

Two sets of laughter resonate, one recognizable as Giantsbane himself. The other was similar, light and airy, but in a voice much sweeter and rhythmic, like raindrops. Whoever it is, is still clinging to Jon's bum like a lifeline. Craning his neck, he looks down to see a wild head of bright orange wisps framing a delicate face. She looks like a softer Tormund, with freckles that dance across the bridge of her nose. Something in the scrunch of her nose, or maybe it's the sideways grin, makes Jon's heart stop in his chest. What a mischievous smile with kind eyes… 

"Maeve says we shouldn't talk to you." 

Tormund makes a wounded noise, and Jon can't fathom why. If there's anything he loved, it was the brutal honesty of children. 

"Why does your sister say that?" Tormund's mouth is frowning under his beard. 

The little girl shrugs, before turning to Jon, her eyebrows raised to her hairline. 

"Papa, does he not talk?" She giggles, and Jon's heart melts. Her laughter carries like a wind chime. 

"He talks when he needs to." Tormund's face splits with how wide his grin is, face absent of whatever was there before. "But, he sure doesn't know how to talk to a girl." 

Jon shoots him a glare, which Tormund ignores in favor of walking toward the tent where Ghost is already waiting. The little one still hasn't let go of Jon's coat, and pulls him along as she follows her father. 

"I just don't know how to talk to pretty girls like you," Jon says. 

Her smile is ten times stronger when directed at him. She can't be older than Bran had been when he left to take the Black, not with the way several of her front teeth are missing. When Arya had lost her first tooth, she had snuck all the way from her side of the castle to Jon's room. His poor little sister had been terrified that she was turning into Old Nan for failing at her sewing lessons. That was lifetimes ago, though. Time had brought change. Jon was certain that there was nothing that Arya feared anymore, yet he was still beyond the wall wearing black. 

"Eydis! Eydis, where the fuck are you?" With an uh-oh, the little girl took off for Tormund, just as a young woman pushed through the crowd. "Little brat, too fast to wrangle." 

In the distance, Jon could hear a high pitched, "Maeve's goin' t’kill me," followed by a loud crash. 

The tent came crashing down in a flurry of fabric, leaving a Tormund shaped lump. Eydis crawled out from beneath the wreckage, all barely contained delight as she wriggled free. Ghost wiggles out behind her. As she pats the direwolf on the head, Eydis and Ghost sprint off together. Maeve growls, chasing after them in a flurry of brown hair, leaving their father trapped under their shelter. Now, its Jon's turn to laugh, as he runs over to help the man from beneath the folds. 

"I had three sons that never caused half as much trouble as those two." The words are muffled by several layers of pelts, as Jon does his best to free the Free man. 

"Perhaps you're just getting old." 

Tormund's face pops out, causing Jon to jump back. "I'm young as a sprite, I'll’ave you know, virile as a bear." 

"Seems to me like that's what got you here in the first place." 

The gleam in Tormund's eye is the only warning he gets before getting tackled to the ground. It is only for the freshly fallen snow that Jon doesn't have the breath knocked right out of him. 

Glee burns away the shock, as Jon kicks out one of Tormund's feet to gain advantage. Jon wrestles the arm pinning him down behind the wildling's back. However, Tormund's quick and sure spin has them both face to face, pushing at the other's shoulders trying to find purchase. They are panting and laughing despite themselves, as spectator's voices are placing bets on who would win. Jon has absolutely no doubt he will lose, but he couldn't care less. Tormund is about to get Jon in a headlock when they both get a faceful of snow. 

In the distance Maeve and Eydis giggle as thick as thieves. They have hidden themselves behind a wide tree, their mitted hands high in the air. But, Jon can see how the older has a death grip on the back of her sister's coat. Tormund's mouth hangs open, wide enough to catch bugs, with clumps of snow in his beard. Jon sputters, unable to contain the joyful rumbling that starts in his belly. It seems the whole camp joins him. 

He elbows the older man in the ribs, "C'mon, we have a tent to rebuild." 

"I ought to make ‘em do it." Tormund offers his hand. Jon takes it, and feels his stomach dip as he is pulled up. 

“I’m surprised you think you can make them do anything.” 

Wide-eyed horror flares in Tormund’s eyes, Jon laughs while patting the larger man on the back. Tormund Giantsbane, Tall Talker, husband of bears, a leader of the Free Folk, is terrified of his own daughters. 

The snowfall is heavy, fat lumps of snow descending in a flurry of pellets. When he stops by his tent, he pauses. Jon traces the frayed flaps, his fingers skimming the hem, and with each slight disturbance, it gives him a glimpse inside. 

In the far corner, a mass of pearl fur wraps around a small bundle, and Jon can see the flickers of bright red even in the darkness. Eydis looks perfectly calm sleeping with her hands shoved deep into Ghost’s second coat. The beast looks like a proper pet cuddling her, even though his red eyes reflect yellow in the dark. Maeve is propped right next to them, resting on the post and her bow in hand. But, Tormund is on the other side, his back to the entrance, his body barely moving. 

He takes in the sleeping figures, watching their steady breaths, and feels his heartbeat sync with the rhythm. His hand drops to his side. They look so peaceful, with their worriless faces, devoid of deep grooves and agd lines. It would be a crime to wake them with his sleep mumblings. 

Instead, he takes refuge at the nearest fire pit. It’s mostly a dying hearth, for the embers are glowing and dimming in turn. Each second the snow melts on top, killing it slowly. With the moon high in the sky, bright enough to throw long shadows across the tents even through storm clouds, Jon put another log on the fire. Sparks fly in a waterfall of flame, as the heat slowly pierces through the bark. He leans forward, filling his lungs deep before releasing a gush of air to let the flames breathe. 

Despite the ache radiating from his eye sockets, and the wound nature of his shoulders, he sat, glaring in the growing flames wondering if the Lord of Light was staring back. Blasts of heat were slaps in the face, but Jon kept his gaze steady regardless. 

Every night he stared and nothing happened. It had been years since he had died, and he still heard nothing from the god supposedly responsible for bringing him to life. There were no visions, no voices, no sense of belief. All he had was doubt.  
For the past fortnight, Jon kept asking himself what the point was bringing him back at all. 

There is a thick layer of white over the ends of his obsidian furs, making each tip glisten in the moonlight. Jon is mesmerized by the diamond like glimmer, watches as each huff of his, shifts the beams of icy light. The fire is struggling to win over the blizzard, taking big breaths to survive in the night. Like drops of Sun, the snow caps on his knuckles radiate warmth. His clenching fist is throwing light directly into his eyes. 

"You must be gone in the head." 

Jon tears himself away from his reverie, glancing back to Tormund. "I thought you were asleep." 

"You're easy to fool." 

He flinches, "Aye, it seems I am." 

"Come to the tent, you look like you're about to fall into the flames." 

Foregoing a response, Jon uses a stick to poke at the wood. The wet bark crackles in the heat, splitting and fraying into a million pieces as he shifts each log. 

Tormund grunts, obviously annoyed by the way Jon can hear the stomps crushing ice, "In case ye'haven't noticed, there's a fuckin' blizzard going on." 

"Inside or out, I won't be able to sleep." Jon shrugs. 

"Well you don't have to sleep-" he says as he squats next to Jon, "-but a frozen crow is much crankier when morning comes." 

With a feather light knock of his shoulder to the other's, Jon can't stop his lips from curling at the corners. Tormund leans right back, shoving away the frosty tips of his cloak. He can feel the warmth that radiates around him, blasting the chill that had settled in his bones. 

"Alright," Jon says as he throws his poker into the flames. "I fancy having all my fingers." 

All around them, a raging storm is taking wing, it even seems like the trees are having trouble staying upright against the thickening air. Jon would have stayed out all night, never noticing the chaos around him. The tent was not far, but the piss poor weather made it seem like an eternity. Swirling winds were like daggers, and Jon shivers against the brunt of the assault. He feels like he could be swept away at a moment's notice. It's agonizing. 

Until Tormund steps up next to him. Breezes no longer feel like weapons to the heart, but there is still a panging inside his chest. Jon studies him, conscious of the way his stomach drops as he distantly traces the hard cheekbones and furrowed brows. This sensation is familiar, eerily so. When Jon finds himself remembering why that humming in his bones is memory, he ignores the answer and struggles to keep in step with the half-giant. 

Entering the tent, Jon feels like he has entered a vacuum. The world around them is truly blocked, no harsh storm, just some whistling and a triad of snores. Tormund is already walking to his pallet, grumbling as he goes, and Jon feels his breath patter in response. 

Careful not to make much noise, he tip toes to the empty bundle at the back of the tent. Tormund is again, unmoving in his cot, and Eydis has somehow climbed atop of Ghost's back. Jon does not even bother to remove his extra furs, but takes extra care with removing his swords, and just lays down with a vacant stare aimed at the ceiling. The fabric bends and pulls under the weight of the snow that piles atop it. 

Despite the chilling weather, deep enough to freeze a man solid, Jon can feel a change. Around the true north, many free folk have already settled, having pulled away from the current horde, to go to different settlements. Jon has caught word that new homes have already been built with families to fill them. Yet, only a year has passed since the Battle of Winterfell. People have begun to anew in the quest for livelihoods. 

Which means, it's been over six months since the war for the seven kingdoms ended. 

Jon can feel every second of those months in his veins. His very blood feels thick with time, dark and dirtied from the life he has lived. Slowly releasing the air through his nose, he twists onto his side, deciding he may as well keep eye on the entrance. Roughened leather digs into his shoulders, blossoming a numbness across his body. So for the night, he watches. 

He sees the exact moment Tormund falls asleep. Stillness devolves into a loose sprawl, so that with every other steady breath, the chief fidgets. Similar to the way he is in waking moments, full of energy and unable to stay still. For a brief second, Tormund stretches his neck, angling his face towards Jon, and diluted light reflects off of his high cheekbones. That large mitted hand is mere inches from Jon's face. It's close enough that Jon can see the slight flutter of fingers underneath. Jon bites his lips, feeling an urge to... 

Tormund stretches again, his face stays the same, but his toes flex and point in his moccasins. Every appendage and muscle is shifting before he settles again. Yet, in the same spot, Tormund's hand stays unmoving. So, Jon's eyes flicker from the breezing tent flaps to the twitching digits trapped in a bearskin glove, until light breaches the horizon. 

"There it is!" Tormund yells, his voice echoing across the two-hundred free folk. Everyone cheers, unbridled excitement picking up the dragging feet of many. 

The reflection of the morning sun ignites the ruins of the settlements in a citrine glow. Huts like empty shells stand on the last bits of foundation left. Their jutting skeletons seem ghostly in the landscape around them. 

"Not much, but with work, it can be a village again." Tormund says, his chest out and the rosiness of his cheeks more than just the bite of the freeze around them. 

Jon does his best to muster a smile, but they both know that it doesn't reach his eyes. Tormund opens his mouth, but people are pushing past them, bumping and jeering like animals. Then Eydis and Maeve have a hand in each of Tormund's and they leave in a flurry. Everything unsaid. Jon stays behind watching as everyone throws their sacks to the ground and bundle with their loved ones. 

Ghost pushes his head against the side of Jon's hip, and together they walk. With his hand, he pushes back dark curls from his face. The Free Folk blend into glistening background in their grey clothing, like shadows into the night. Jon looks down at the shiny white of Ghost's brushed pelt, and his jaw clenches. _The world seems too cruel sometimes._ The pair of them saunter up to the bustling people, gliding along the outer edge, and making the rounds. Ghost peels off to the open plain, vanishing in broad daylight. 

People are claiming ruins and open areas for their houses, while others are setting up fire pits. Chaos everywhere, but Jon can see past it all to the hard concentration in everyone's face. Determination to make a home. Drive to make it better, to make it last. 

"Oi, Snow, get your ass over here!" 

In a hut just off the main area, Tormund stands waving out a window. The building looks mostly intact, if missing more than a few boards and stones. Jon pushes his way through. 

"Are you sure that's safe?" 

Tormund scoffs, "Of course it is, I built it." 

Jon takes a step back, surveying the intricate pattern of stonework that makes the wall so sturdy, enraptured by the way it blends into the wood. He runs his fingers between the grooves, feeling the cold, unshifting mortar underneath. The rocks are of all different shapes and colors, like earthly scales over skin. 

"Brilliant," Jon whispers. 

"Some more time, and it'll be in top shape." 

Jon swallows, stepping inside. The room is spacious, with doors leading to other areas, and a hearth in the middle. He can just see the meals made in the fire, and laughter filling the room. "I hope to see it one day." 

Tormund's face darkens, the muscles in his neck straining so much, Jon can see it over the collar of his coat. "You're leaving so soon?" 

"I was to help…" 

"Then you can help us rebuild." 

"...get you to your homes." 

"We don't even have homes, yet." 

Jon sighs, rubbing his hands down his face, "They'll be expecting me." 

"There're plenty o'crows at a wall that doesn't need to be defended," Tormund sneers. 

His hands are shaking inside his black leather gloves, small enough to barely be noticeable, but he feels them, like quakes in his limbs. 

"The Free Folk don't need me," Jon says, but he feels empty. His muscles are stiff as stone, and he can't meet Tormund face to face. "My place is at the Wall, I leave tomorrow." 

Jon doesn't look up. The wind sweeps through the broken hut, whistling as it goes. Deafening to Jon's ear, but not enough to drown out the fluttering of his heart. A beat later, Tormund walks out, leaving Jon to convince himself that the words aren't bitter leaves on his tongue. 

When Jon finally leaves the emptiness of the hut, he surveys the camp. Some have already started rebuilding, while others are clearing debris. Stamping down the bubbling in his chest, he knows there is work to do. 

His tent stays empty when night falls. Even if his legs feel like water and there's a pulsing soreness radiating from his feet, Jon walks past his encampment with a bow in hand. He whistles, and before long Ghost is by his side. 

The moon sits high, its silvery gleam bouncing from the white ground, so that even Jon can see where miles of open plains meet the forest. His mind is blank, focused only on the sounds of wildlife as he gets further and further from the village. 

Tonight, when everyone had finished their jobs, settled in around the firepits to eat, not everyone had full bowls. Winter was here, yet the journey had eaten most of their stores. Jon had given most of his ration to one of the children, devising a plan as he sipped at the rest of the soup. 

A scuffle in the distance has man and direwolf pausing. Reaching to knock an arrow, Jon spots the rabbit. Barely noticeable with creme fur, but the twitching ears are all Jon needs. Muscle memory has him pulling the string back and leasing it. The cottontail realizes too late before its body is sprawled on the ground. Maneuvering as silently as possible, he picks up the rabbit by its feet, glad that it's a decent size. Perhaps the night can be bountiful. By how slow it reacted, Jon can tell that the wildlife hasn't seen hunters for years. 

As the moon travels across the sky, he catches at least three more rabbit, and some sort of abnormally large shrew. Ghost had gone off on his own hunt, hours ago. His hands begin to curl as the pads of his drawing fingers throb. The luck seems almost too good when the stag crosses Jon's path. 

No matter the pinch from his shoulder and the fogginess of his thoughts, Jon aims. His hand feels dangerously steady, a distant calm flowing in his limbs. Like breathing, he let's go. The arrow flies through the air, Jon can feel the shudder from releasing the string rattle his senses, clearing the haze in his mind. The arrow lands just as he intended. 

The glorious beast screeches, rearing on it hind legs as it reacts to the metal in its heart. Knocking another arrow he aims again. From the bushes, a pair of fawn run away with a doe following close behind. Jon's eyes flicker from the fleeing flock to the dying buck, a weight settling deep in the pit of his stomach. With one last exhale, he shoots another. 

Frantic kicking stops in a heartbeat, the stag falls with an arrow to its eye. The wood is silent, not even the fleeting deer can be heard. Jon walks up to the stag, watching the white snow bleed crimson in the moonlight. His eyes intend to look at the stars but stop halfway. 

Red leaves of a weirwood tree are illuminated, the face carved into the trunk sleeping soundly. The roots not covered by snow are splattered in red. Jon can't help feel something visceral bubbling, wanting for something he couldn't name. 

Ghost nudges his hand. His muzzle a mirror of the snow around them. Jon waits for a second, then another, but all that happens are the leaves swaying in the wind. 

Bending down, he grabs a weathered hoof, " _Let's go._ " 

The direwolf easily carried the buck on his back, not even stumbling under the weight. All Jon had to do was make sure the antlers didn't accidentally stab him. By the time they make it to the center of the village, Ghost's freshly brushed coat is a mess of blood, and Jon drops the sizable additions are left with the stores. 

Jon feels ready to collapse, though logic yells at him not to. When he does finally throw himself onto his makeshift bed, he sleeps, dreamless. 

His hands tremble as he tries to bind the cloths together, but the folds kept coming undone, the strings fraying as they swung in midair. The travel pack was half empty, all the dried meats and canteens still strewn about the tent floor. Growing light illuminates his tent in a pink glow. But, the stupid tarp would loosen from its bundle, falling apart everytime he tried to put it together. Growling, he threw it through the air with more force than he intended. 

Jon took a breath, the frosty air sprouting an ache in his lungs. Everything should have been done by now, loaded and ready. 

Sounds of the free folk ring like music across the morning wind. Old songs that he had just begun to learn are echoing in his ears. Jon clenches his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking, wondering if this was punishment. 

The flap to his tent opens, unfurling every inch of Tormund as the giant steps inside. Jon shakes his shoulders, the tingling in his spine persistent as he watches the other man stalk around him. Blue eyes take in disarray as if calculating. 

"They've started jerking the deer meat." 

Jon shifts, "Should last until the next hunt, then." 

"A party left at first light'," Tormund says, clouds of white following his words. "Then we checked the stores, saw a big ol'stag." 

Jon stops fidgeting. Fingers twitching for something to do. Instead, he stares at Tormund's back. The man is running fingers across the seam of the roof, and Jon follows them as they glide across stitching. It sounds too loud in his brain, thoughts running amok. Jon finds himself waiting, prepared to hear what Tormund wants to say, but equally as unwilling. 

"You're actually leaving," Tormund grunts. 

A pause that leaves the both of them on separate ends. Tormund slowly turns around, twisting on his heel. Jon looks away before their eyes meet. 

"I'm to report back to the wall." Jon blindly reaches for the nearest object, stuffing it into the pack in front of him without thought. 

"How dutiful." 

Jon can feel his teeth grinding, "If you have something to say, get on with it." 

Tormund picks up the tarp from earlier. His big hands flip and wrap it with ease. Wordlessly, the chief throws it into Jon's travel pack, the neat bundle like a beacon amongst the mess. It makes Jon want to scream. 

"Why go back?" 

"To serve the Night's Watch," the words are dry on Jon's tongue. 

Tormund growls, the deep rumble startling Jon from where he stays crouched. "That's shit, and ye'know it." 

Jon stands, clenching a stray cloth in his fist, as he finally meets the other face to face. Something inside him is crumbling. The way it burns with each heartbeat, Jon can't pinpoint where the pain starts. 

"What do you want me to say, then?" Jon meant for it to be strong, for the words to carry in the empty space, but they don't. Instead, his voice fades into barely a breath between them. 

The taller man's face changes, from the bitter anger into something Jon can't quite place. Small sounds grate on his ears as he waits for the next words. His heart yearning for something to break this stupid crusade he finds himself in. With each passing second, his hope withers. 

Jon melts, drained to the bone, "You think I _want_ to leave?" 

Tormund pulls the mangled rag out of Jon's hands, "Then, why are you?" 

His eyes sting. They flicker everywhere except to the man in front of him. His shoulders shrug, aimless in their intention, because Jon can barely feel his body, thoughts absent from his brain. Tormund grips into his black jerkin, steadying Jon on his feet. 

"You deserve to be where you belong," Tormund whispers. 

John shakes his head. The words ring. Maybe it's the way they had been said, or how much Jon wants to believe them, but he can't deny the longing that has sprouted. 

"The North doesn't want the likes of me," Jon pleads. To who, he's unsure. "Not with what I've done." 

Blue eyes soften, too understanding, and he feels split apart. _I don't deserve this._ The blood on Jon's hands will stain. 

"Stay." 

The word is so simple, Tormund makes it seem so easy. But the flickering embers of his resolve dies, leaving Jon defenseles. Tormund is squeezing tighter onto his leathers, the grip riding the edge of pain. The warm embrace he is pulled into is a shock to his system, and the ice that had settled into his heart shatters. 

"Okay," Jon says, hugging tighter. 

Jon follows Tormund with his pack over his shoulder. People nod and wave as they pass by, but otherwise return to mending their homes. His limbs feeling gawky as he trudges past, trying to keep in step with the much larger man. By the time Tormund stops, it takes him longer than he'd admit to realize why. 

The hut is different than it had been only a day ago. Though the holes are patched seamlessly and the archway now has a door, it's the light from a lit hearth inside that makes all the difference. A small chimney spits out smoke in waves, like a proper home. 

Tormund gestures inside, and Jon wordlessly obeys. The blast of heat chases away the winter as he steps in. His face feels flushed from the difference, and he gauges the room. Long and narrow in the main area, with a tapered ceiling. Jon hears rustling behind one of the doors. 

Popping out in a tumble and slamming the door against the wooden wall, Eydis and Maeve wrestle for a blanket between them. The younger girl seems to be holding her own against her sister's longer arms simply because her teeth trap one edge of the fabric. 

"Let go, the room isn't ready," Maeve yells. Eydis growls incoherently, but there's a mad glint in her eye. "Stop it!" 

Fingers between his lips, Tormund whistles to get their attention, "Too late, we're already here." 

The slobbered corner falls from Eydis's mouth as a sheepish grin overcomes her face. Jon can't ignore the mischievous gleam in her eyes. Maeve looks downright offended. 

"You said we had the morning!" 

Eydis chimes in, "The _entire_ morning!" 

Jon gazes between the three feeling as if he should back out of the room slowly. "If I've interrupted something…" 

"No!" the younger screeches, "Maeve just wanted your room to be tidy." 

Heat warms the tips of his tears, "My room?" 

"Da said he'd get you to sta-" 

With her father's stern glare, Eydis snaps her mouth shut. The silent communication between them is lost on Jon, but he remembers moments just like this with Rob. Albeit, when he was younger, it was mostly them trying to steal pastries from the kitchen. The trio all have similar stances despite the differences between them, with every arched brow and pursed lip, his heart aches by the clear caricature of family. Tormund's oldest daughter looks ready to fall on her own arrow with how red her face is. 

"Go to your room, ya'pair of headaches." 

As they shuffle to the opposite side of the hut, Jon tries to tame the swirl of emotions in his head. He almost wishes the girls were staying, just to distract him. 

"I can't stay _here_ , this is your home," Jon blurts. 

Tormund laughs, a throaty rumble that has Jon clutching tighter at the strap of his pack, "Where else would you stay?" 

His mouth is gaping before he can stop himself. Too easily, Tormund takes his bag and enters the room that the girls had tumbled out from. Jon shuffles in behind him, still forming the words on his tongue. 

"Tor, it's imposing." 

"No, it's not, 'cause I've invited you." 

Jon feels swallowed whole. No matter how desperately he wants to say why he can't. He can picture it in his mind: twisting in the middle of the night with a scream, waking everyone in the process; pain brought forth from Jon's memory to haunt everyone around him. 

"I can't-" 

Tormund stops him with a hand on his shoulder before Jon can continue. "If you're worried, you shouldn't be. Get settled." 

When Tormund leaves, the room feels too big. Wooden walls moan with the winds that pushes from the outside. The pack on the pallet in the corner of the room is all he has. Engulfed by the shadows cast in the morning light, Jon doesn't even feel lik he's in his body. Everything around him just as it should be, but he was stuck and unmoving. 

Hidden from the world as he is, without probing eyes to stare, Jon starts removing his pitch cloak. Taking the black bear fur off, his shoulders feel lighter. 

The knock on his door comes as a surprise. Fumbling to keep his undershirt on, Jon fingers open the wood to see Maeve on the other side. Her wild brown hair is pulled back into a fine plait that runs down her shoulder, no evidence of her wrestling with her younger sister only minutes ago. 

Both of them stay silent, both too awkward to say the first word. She is running her boot into a groove in the floorboard, not looking up from her intense focus on woodgrain. Jon can see the redness in her cheek. He can feel his breath leave him in a soft putter, a small smile teasing the corners of his lips. 

"Thank you for the room," Jon says. 

Maeve's shoulders shake, small tremors that Jon would not have seen if he wasn't prone to them himself. Eyes as wide as the moon are the focus on her face, making her look so young that Jon has flashbacks to early days at Winterfell. Regardless of whatever nerves she seems to have, her mouth opens. 

"I mean, it's no problem," her voice is shaky at best, and Jon waits. He can see the lingering question on her tongue, and he can only hope that she feels comfortable enough to ask. "Pa-Tormund said, that if you stayed, you could teach me to fight. Not that you have to, but the southern lords-" 

"I'd be honored." 

Jon catches the quirk of a grin, before the young girl nods in a jilted top-down motion. A glow seems to spill from her very pores, Jon is nearly blinded by it. Gone are her usually furrowed brows, as she spins around back towards her room. Just barely, Jon hears the small _thank you_. 

Feeling like a cloud has inflated in his chest, he returns to getting dressed. 

Singling out Tormund in a crowd is easy. He looks like a giant even amongst his own people, but the bright flames of hair are like a beacon in the night. Free folk are gathered around their chief, open and willing to any command. Not even a week has passed, but their tired eyes have seen enough of war, wanting desperately to have a home again. They listen, receiving orders then haul off to their duties. 

Jon waits at the outer edge of the crowd, patting and tugging at his rearranged furs, unsure how the pelt Sansa had given him felt on his shoulders. The cloak had been stored at the bottom of his bag for safekeeping, but when he had pulled it free, he nearly dropped it. When the intricate work fell open, the direwolf emblazoned on the straps bore straight to his soul. Trembling hands removed the chest piece, so Jon could place it across his back. Fewer people are in the crowd now, Jon listens as best he can. 

One by one, faces pass him by. Men and women that Jon know from the years. Never had he learned their names, or their stories. Maybe when the past years' wounds on all their hearts have faded into scars, and they can laugh without the lingering memory of lost loved ones, Jon would be welcomed to those histories. Jon stares down at his Night's Watch jerkin, knowing it will take time. 

Tormund slings an arm over his cloak, surprising him, "what can you do?" 

Jon feels a muscle in his jaw twitch, "Always fought and hunted." 

"Well, everyone here and their full bellies know you can hunt, but what else?" 

His mind draws a blank. Jon has always felt at home with a sword in hand, or a bowstring drawn. Years of training had prepared Jon for battle, but if luck would have it, the free folk wouldn't have to see war for years to come. 

"I don't know." 

The glint in Tormund's eye reminded Jon of the one he had seen earlier in Eydis's. Similar flames of mischief behind blue eyes that sought to bring joy to the world. 

"Perfect, a blank slate." 

Pulling Jon along, they bob and weave around other workers. Even children are doing their parts. The flush of his cheeks can't be blamed by the bite of the air, it seemed everyone had their place except him. 

At the other end of the village, an elderly woman was repairing a home by herself. Her long hair still had some lingering bits of black amidst all the grey and white. The way she was placing stone and wood to the hut, revealed nothing of her age. 

"Jon, this is Ake, she was here when the first men invaded," Tormund pulls him forward as he says it, "and she can teach you how to build, or anything really." 

Her glare is withering, Jon isn't sure how Tormund can stand the scrutiny. Every wrinkle on her face deepens as she sets her materials down. Underneath her stare, Jon can see the woman she was, fierce and unrelenting, most likely a force of nature in her youth. 

"One day when you get old, I hope you have these insults back tenfold," she says, voice croaking but the airiness surprises Jon. 

Tormund twits his lips into a sly smirk. "Figured the last elder could use a hand," he says, then walks off leaving Jon gaping. 

He opens his mouth to introduce himself, but finds his tongue twisted. Her eyes bore into his own. Sweat accumulates at the base of his spine, causing shivers to crawl to his neck. Something in her face changes before she purses her lips and declares: 

"Right then, let's get to work." 

With a worrying thud, Jon rests the satchel of stones and slats of wood next to Ake, her skilled hands finding the granite without so much as a glance. The fingertips of his right hand chafe, but Jon returns to his work. The women's grin is bright as she nods her thanks, despite every wrinkle that frames her smile and the grey cast of her irises. 

So far, it had been her snapping fingers signaling for him to watch. Fascinated, Jon saw her create the intricate pattern, using a stick to make sure a gap would be left for wood posts at equal intervals. Without a word being said between them, Jon had learned to restructure a doorway and create a new door entirely. His hands cramped, each tendon unused to such fine word, but he was glad for it. 

He was handing her stone as she slaved to repair an arch, giving her the right piece for the puzzle, when she spoke for the first time in hours. 

"You've done us good, boy." 

"It's my duty." 

Ake's chuckle is grainy, as if her lungs were full of smoke, "it wasn't before." 

Jon swallows, handing her another piece of granite. The silence that has lasted most of the day falls again, but Jon feels it pull and prod as he stacks and mortars. Focusing on blending the woodwork into the stone was easier than pondering what she could possibly mean. 

When Jon goes to bed, he lays awake. The high ceiling seems to drop with every passing hour, crushing the air around him. Dinner had been silent, everyone too tired to even try to strike conversation. The deer meat stew filled their tummies, and before long, everyone had gone to bed. Except Jon. 

By the embers of the dying hearth, he kept the flame constant. So unlike keeping a fire in the camp, the flickering flames barely swayed inside. All Jon could do was sit and wait for it to die down until putting another log. 

Going to bed was more of a formality than a necessity. Jon found himself unsure of his place in this big hut with full rooms. Families filled homes. Families that were initially bound by blood. Father's that protected daughters, made them laugh, and hurt boys that made them cry. Sisters that fought and screamed, yet refused to tattle when one had done wrong. Warm walls and dancing firelight, Jon wasn't sure where he was supposed to be within it all. 

Morning come, Jon heard the knock on his door, and was still dressed to answer it. On the other side was Maeve, yawn lingering on her face and a sword in hand. The main area was dimly lit by the rays of a hiding sun. Without a word, Jon nodded and followed her out. 

Teaching someone to fight came naturally to him. Days of teaching Bran swordsmanship, archery, and everything Jon could think of came rising to the surface as Maeve held her blade in hand. Soon, he forgot that he was teaching a sixteen year old girl. 

She was quick, Jon could tell by the muscles in her limbs. Her primary weapon had been archery, her upper arm strength commendable, but it meant that she knew how to knock arrows rapidly. With her unsure grip, Maeve wouldn't be able to parry if it came to combat, he was sure that would change in time. 

No one in the village was awake, so Jon had kept his talking to a minimum, instead tapping corrections to her limbs with his wooden sword. 

Determined and unwilling to quit, Jon sent her through her paces. Footwork that she had trouble with at first, ended with her finding the rhythm. They hadn't even begun swinging, let alone maneuvers or tactic. She was gifted with a quick mind. With only one morning, Jon could see improvement. 

But when people began to bustle about, greeting the rising sun, they had stopped. Chocolate braids were loose and wild, swinging in the breeze as Maeve caught her breath. Cheeks flushed with youthful vigor, she smiled. Jon couldn't stop thinking about how it felt to see the gratitude in her eyes, when they went their separate ways. 

"Fuck, you're here early," Ake groans. 

Eager to set them down, he throws the bundle of materials on his back through the hole in the wall. Jon looks at the late morning sun, and raises an eyebrow at her. 

She scoffs, "Don't give me that shit, I'm old. But I still have survived more wars than the south. Now hand me that board." 

Doing as told, Jon hauls the lumber inside. Like most of the other huts, this one had considerable damage. The eastern wall had completely gone, while the inner walls had collapsed. Ake had told him that whoever built it, was a, "dumbass that wanted to kill everyone that ever stepped inside." 

Her grumbling was a reassuring hum in the back of his mind. Every so often, Jon heard a particularly biting, "fuckin' Giantsbane." He was unsure of why she said it, but given the exasperated fondness in her voice, Jon figured it was okay to laugh. 

Time had always seemed like a fleeting thing. An entity that had pulled him through his own life just to seep the strength from his bones. Yet, in the true north, the passing days blended together into a steady rhythm. 

Every morning, he would train Maeve by twilight, the purple skies a perfect backdrop to testing mind and body. Jon isn't sure where the weeks have gone, hadn't even noticed them passing. Sparring with Tormund's eldest daughter starts to leave him with bruises from confident jabs and quick thinking. 

Then he would get on with tasks. Build with Ake, join a hunting party, or on a memorable occasion, herd the goats. Jon wouldn't let sore arms slow him down, even when hammering boards or shooting arrows. In fact, the bright burn in his cramping tendons pushed him harder. Unlike battle, Jon had never once felt the weight in his heart when he finished plowing into frozen dirt. 

At night, he would stumble in to find Eydis over a pot of stew, as Tormund helped her reach the herbs in the kitchen. Both their fiery locks pulled back in braids, as they argued over flavors. The pair never noticed him when he walked past to grab a bowl and settle in beside Maeve. 

"Dinner and a show," she would say, chuckling as they watched Eydis climb the counter just to meet Tormund eye to eye. 

After they would separate into their private areas to sleep. The coin flip of whether the exhaustion would pull him under, or he would lay awake was always a game that he could not control. Cruel ghosts to twist him from sleep had not shown their putrid faces for so long, it truly blindsided him when he woke one night in a fever sweat, Rickon's name just grazing past his lips in a shouted whisper. Jon should have known the weeks of dreamless nights would come to an end. 

He claws at his undershirt, gasping and writhing in bed. Images of the fatal arrow don't burn away the tears when he blinks, nothing does. Jon wipes furiously at his cheeks, hoping that his heart will stop its staccato beat in his chest. Every swallowed breath feels like he is inhaling sand. Shooting up from bed, Jon goes straight to the door to get a gulp of water from the pail. 

Except, Jon is surprised to find Eydis curled by the fire, the long metal poker in her hand stoking the flames. Only her eyes move to look at him as he steps out. Her free arm wrapped around her shins, and her head resting on her knees. 

As efficiently as he can, Jon fills a bowl with clear spring water. Eydis follows every movement, tracking each step as he settles down next to her. He takes a sip, shuddering at the cool stream easing his sore throat, then offers the bowl to her. 

Resting the red hot metal to the side, she reaches hesitantly to grab the edge. So close, Jon can see the puffiness of her cheeks, stains leave gleaming lines across her freckles. She doesn't take a sip, just hones in on the rippling waves of the water in her hands. 

For the life of him, he doesn't know what to say. 

Silence falls like a blanket, the only disturbance is the subtle gulps from the bowl as they pass it between each other. By the time the bowl is empty, Jon does his best to muster a smile. 

"Aren't you tired?" 

Eydis nods, her exposed toes curling in on themselves, "but I can't sleep without dreaming." 

Jon swallows, "I have them, too." 

Fluttering eyelashes make her green eyes pop as she tries to stop the glistening in her eyes. Her lips quivers but she slowly slides until she's pressed to Jon's side. He has had knives to the gut that didn't frighten him half as much this did. Hesitantly, he wraps an arm around her shoulders to pull her close, and she positively melts into him. 

The startling realization that she is so small hammers his ribcage and steals his breath. Half her hair is covered by the billowy fabric of his nightshirt, but her face doesn't even cover half his chest. Where her cheek is squished with Jon's every inhale, he feels a slight damp spot spreading. 

Though his hands have not been so gentle since he ruffled Arya's hair all those years ago, Jon weaves fingers through her embers of hair. Eydis grips onto his shirt and muffles her tears, still he runs his hand languidly to the end and repeats. He refuses to stop even when her silent sadness shifts into hiccups. 

With a small voice she says, "Jon?" 

"Yes?" 

She plays with a frayed string in the cloth, "Can I plait your hair?" 

Jon pauses though unsure why, "Go ahead." 

Wiping at her eyes, Eydis scrambles out from Jon's arms to kneel at his back. Her slim digits expertly work out all the knots he's sure to have, focusing on his right temple. Each strand may be firmly held but Jon barely feels the pull, his mind drawing a blank as she starts a pattern. With every separation and twist, Jon feels his eyelids growing heavier and heavier. 

"Your hair's pretty." 

Jon hums, "Can't say it's because I take care of it, but thank you." 

Her hands move to the other side, beginning at the spot just above Jon's ear. Such knowing hands, he thinks, she must do it often. Even Tormund seems to have fallen prey to his daughter's will. Then he recalls each pin that Maeve had during their training, something different each dawn. 

"Do you braid your sister's hair every morning?" 

Diligent hands stop in their machinations, "Maybe." 

Jon can feel his clenching jaw jut against her palm, and his mind whirls. Unsure work continues on the side of his head, but he can feel Eydis's wariness like a cloud above them. 

"If you're up, do you want to watch us train?" 

With a twist, Jon somehow knows she's already done. Without the hair to mask his face, Jon feels different. He turns around to look her straight in the eyes, waiting for her answer. 

"Really? I'd like to." 

Before he realizes what he's doing, he's ruffling the top of her head, and a bittersweet sting emanates from Jon's bones. He is about to pull away when Eydis gives him a big smile, her missing tooth a gap in the bottom row that let's her tongue poke through. She crawls back to Jon's side, fixing the braids framing the sides of his head as she begins humming a tune. 

His eyes shut. It seems he loses track of time, but when they open again, Eydis is curled up on his lap, snoring softly. Jon pets down her hair, teasing it off her face so she can breathe. No matter how hard he tries, sleep pulls him under. 

He dreams, one softer than Jon deserves. Of Tormund standing over them, whispering in his daughter's ear, and kissing her forehead. Then of the chief pulling a blanket over them. Jon can feel the warmth of Tormund's hand on his cheek almost as if it were real, the roughness of his thumb somehow soothing on Jon's skin. It ends with the chief pulling away with a hushed goodnight. 

When Jon wakes up that morning to Maeve tapping her foot next to his ear, Eydis has migrated to sleeping directly over his chest. Her entire weight is slightly crushing his lungs, but Jon stares at the blanket they were covered in, and quenches the flare in his chest. 

The rhythm Jon had gotten used to changes. Now, he spends his time before bed under the gentle artistry of Eydis as she finds new ways to style his hair. Waking up in the morning now involves making sure Tormund's youngest doesn't forget her gloves when they go out in the morning. And, constantly telling Maeve to be wary not to accidentally smack her younger sister in the head if she gets too focused on training. Though Jon is sure that half the hits are done on purpose. 

Jon helps Ake assess damages on another home they are repairing, the poor structure unpicked when the free folk had resettled despite how well it was built. Each area has missing floorboards, or a gap between the ceiling and the wall, but it was only a few days work. 

As they were looking through the hole in the exterior wall, Jon spotted a pair of men working next door. A tall man was on a ladder, while the shorter held it steady. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary until the taller one stopped on his way down the ladder to peck the other on the lips, just to return to work as if nothing happened. 

No matter how hard he tried not to be, Jon was planted to the spot. The breath left him in a rush of uneven exhales. They hadn't even tried to hide it, both had done it as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. 

"I always forget that southerners are asses for the stupid shit," Ake grunts, she's leaning on the wall like she'd rather do anything else. "I don't mean you, white crow." 

Jon feels like he should say something, but he is still processing. He remembers nights when he was younger, the shame he had felt when thinking about the stable boy that had been kind to him. Of how he heard the gossip of the pillowbiters amongst the ladies and lords. 

Ake smacks him upside the head, "Don't go disappointin' me now. Free folk have no shits about who you fuck." 

"Where I grew up, they would have been killed." 

"Aren't you glad you left then?" 

"I've just never seen, I-I didn't know I coul-it was allowed," Jon stutters too much to finish his thought. 

When he turns to Ake, her smile is gentle in the same way it is when Tormund has come to rib her and she thinks he isn't looking. A sense of calm washes over him but he furrows his brows thinking. These people find themselves truly free, and despite him being miles from any part of the seven kingdoms, his heart seizes with panic at the thought, he has no reason to feel shame anymore. 

"My wife would have liked you," she says, "You remind me of her; quiet, kind, a bit soft around the edges though you try not to show it." 

Jon meets her eye, seeing them glisten as she looks at him. After all the months working with her, she has never spoken about her self. For the first time, Jon tries to imagine the incredible life she must have led to get this far, the things she must have seen. How much of this land had she lost to the Night King? 

"You must miss her," Jon says, his voice wavering. 

Ake gives him a watery chuckle, "It's been years since she passed, boy, but I do. I was lucky that she died in her sleep, that the last thing I said to her was I love her, and gave her a pyre surrounded by our sons and daughters." 

Jon can feel the stinging behind his eyes, "It's all anyone could hope for." 

Her hands cup his face, causing him to jolt. They're softer than they look, Jon half expected her hands to be calloused from the hard work they've done. Ake traces the edge of the plait that Eydis had given him the night before, even though it was unruly from sleeping, training, and working the morning. 

"You're such an oblivious boy," her thumbs glide over his cheekbones, "You deserve this much and more." 

Like many things she has said before, the words confuse him. A million different meanings, and a million ways that he could take them. Jon's heart beats faster in his chest. One question courses through his mind: what does he deserve? To atone for the things he's done? To be surrounded by the people the people he loved? Jon doesn't think so. 

"So stupid," she croaks, a laugh ringing with each breath, "Let's get to work." 

"Jon!" 

Eydis jumps on his back, thin arms wrapping around Jon's shoulders like snakes. Despite her best efforts, his steps don't falter even as she giggles in his ear. The morning had been too quiet, breakfast had gone smoothly with every chore done, he should have known the little fox would strike. Deft fingers tug at his hair, pulling strands as he does his best to get them back home in one piece. 

"What do you want?" Jon tries his best to sound put off. 

Except the day had been hard. Scuffles amongst the people had led to Tormund to deal with finding peace for stupid property disputes. Jon had tried to return to the hut all morning with Ghost to prepare for the hunt at nightfall, but people had been pulling him to and fro asking for help with their houses. Deep down he knows he was just searching for a sense of relief to settle his racing thoughts. 

The sharp sting to his ear has her giggling, absolutely giddy with herself. Jon hikes her higher up his back, locking his palms behind her knees. 

"A free ride," Eydis declares, pointing in the direction of home, "Onward!" 

Obliging, Jon trudges through the fresh fallen snow, glad that no one tries to bother him while Eydis is yodeling on his back. People seem to feel just as enamored with her antics, and Ghost nips at her flopping foot every now and again. 

Using his boot to push open the door to their hut, Jon steps inside. Eydis slides down with a wiggle and a shout, ruffling the direwolf's head and beckoning him through the living area and to her room. Jon watches amused at them both before the door shuts. 

He goes to warm his hands by the hearth, crouching down to remove his mitts. There's a ruckus behind the door in the girl's room, Jon can hear Ghost's claws on wood, along with clacking and bumps, and Maeve cursing like a seafarer. 

The flames are bright even with the light of day, he stares at each flicker and thinks of nights that seem so long ago. An entire lifetime has passed since he set out on this journey, it doesn't feel quite right that he had been preparing to return to the wall less than four months ago. The walls that had been part of a house had slowly become a home, but Jon knew it wasn't because of time. 

He thought of Eydis, her hair as bright as her mind. The way she spent hours over the fire, making meals with a passion he had only seen rivaled by her sister. Maeve with her determined stare as she took to sword fighting like she was born to it. How every morning she would train and be that much closer to finally disarm him. 

Then he thought of Tormund, bustling about the village, taking on so much that he came back every night with a hooded stare. Yet, without fail he'd wrap his daughters in bear hugs and help them with dinner and ask about their day despite the yawn that often interrupted his words. How he spoke to Jon with the same familiarity they always had, but asked him for advice. How every night Jon watched Tormund slip into the bedroom, and Jon found himself wishing he had thought of more to say. 

Jon stood, stretching and twisting to try and ease the tightness in his lower back. Just when he was about to give up and head to his room to prepare, Tormund stepped out of his personal quarters. 

"Perfect timing," Tormund says, "C'mere." 

Swallowing, Jon moves around the hearth and follows the taller man into the one room he had yet to be in. Not that Jon thought it wouldn't be, but the space is bigger, with a larger bed in the center. Compared to the mania in his own room, Jon is surprised to find everything neatly sorted. Axes and weapons right by the door, furs and clothing in baskets, and a desk in the corner stacked with leathers. 

Unsure of what to do, Jon shuts the door behind him, watching Tormund meander about, digging into one of the baskets and pulling out a bundle. Jon can recognize the familiar grey pelts. 

"Had these made for you," Tormund grumbles, not meeting his eyes. 

Jon rings his hands, pushing off the door to stand straight, he feels wrought dry. Every fiber of his being wants to reach out and put the clothes on, to strip off the black and finally feel the soft leather. He remembers wearing the free Folk furs once. At the time, he had not wanted to admit that they felt better than the black cloak ever had. 

He wants to take them and never let go, instead he says, "Thank you, but I can't take them." 

Tormund rolls his eyes, "Yes you can." 

"Someone else might need them." 

"I may call you my little crow, but you're not one anymore," the way Tormund's voice dips, Jon feels the hairs on his neck rise. "This is the stag _you_ caught, these are rabbits _you_ shot, no one else deserves them." 

Bated breath and a pulsating in his bones make his grip too shaky to grab the pelts from Tormund's grasp. The chief still hasn't looked up, focused on Jon's grip, most likely confused as to why Jon still hasn't taken them. But for the life of him, he can't muster the strength for that final tug, because this close to Tormund's face, Jon can see. The man kissed by flame looks exhausted, his eyes sunken and dark, their telltale gleam present but dulled. Lines in between his brows even when he isn't frowning. Yet Jon cannot look way, his fingers twitch, aching to soothe the grooves. 

"Tor," Jon pauses, and he curses himself as his courage fades, "Thank you." 

He's fascinated by the way the red beard shifts when Tormund clenches his jaw, "Alright, go get changed, can't have you sticking out amongst the snow for the hunt." 

Jon nods, at last taking the pelts into his arms. The deerskin is heavy and sags, but he can still feel the warmth from Tormund's hands. Without looking back, Jon exits the way he came, not taking a single breath until he has the door shut behind him. 

By nightfall, Jon has rearranged his new coats over and over again, finding that no matter what, it fits perfectly. Testing his mobility, the grey fur gives naturally, forming to his shape with each draw of the bow. Walking out of the house after Tormund, Jon feels confident strapped with his quiver and weapon, and Ghost at his side. Maeve joins them at the edge of the village after having dropped of Eydis to spend the night with Ake. 

The hunting party was set to hunt in the mountains to catch the sleeping boar, or the odd bison. It took spears, arrows, and tactics with a lot of manpower to take down the northern beasts. They were much hardier than any the south were accustomed too. 

He was walking towards the back of the group, for he had never participated in hunts like these. Tormund described it as a well choreographed dance, where everyone knew to work together. Jon couldn't imagine the kind of group instinct, for he had never been allowed on the large hunts in Winterfell. 

"You look so old with all that worry on your face," Maeve's voice is calm and smooth, very unlike her father's. The girl has a tight knit between her eyes that makes Jon worry more. 

"Worrying is my job." 

"No wonder you look like an old fart most of the time." 

Jon makes an odd sound through his nose, "You sound like your father." 

"There's worse people to sound like." 

"It wasn't intended as a bad thing." 

"There they are again! Those sad puppy eyes," Maeve laughs, but it sounds hollow. They walk side by side, yet both of them are on different planes entirely. Her silence feels heavier than her footsteps. 

Snorting and shaking his head, Jon pats her on the shoulder, "My sisters always said I frequented dark corners to brood." 

Maeve grins in a smile exactly like her father's, "I don't even have to imagine it, you do it all the time at home." 

They both freeze, Ghost trotting past them and further into the mountainside. Jon had been calling the hut his home and he can't remember when it started. His pulse pounds his eardrums like a war cry, but he gives her a small smile. 

Walking forward, a silence falls between them once more. His gaze falls on Tormund's back where he leads at the front of the group. The man is big, broad shouldered amongst peers, and built like a bull. Jon gulps, remembering looking up for the first time all those years ago, kneeling before him. 

"You're not even subtle." 

Jon snaps away from the memory, his cheeks heating in an instant, "what?" 

"You're both idiots." 

John splutters in response, coherency out the window, "let's just get through the hunt." 

The heavy pause feels like time warping between them. Not a second later, Ghost returns, his muzzle slightly slick in a splatter of red, and Jon can only imagine what poor woodland creature has fallen to his maw. 

When he processes her words, a stinging starts at his temples. "Don't-just don't give me hope." 

"If I were you, crow, I wouldn't come to the worst before it happened." She walks forward, her hand gliding through the white sea of fur on Ghost's back. 

Jon can only watch as she disappears into the front of the crowd in a streak of long hair as dark as soil after rain. Mesmerized, his feet feel unsteady on the ground, despite gravity weighing on his bones. Jon feels blindsided. It seems she uses her youth like a shield 

For what? Jon does not know. 

With the bison they haul back, Jon feels light on his feet. The conversation with Maeve still rings with his heartbeat, but seeing the party so full of joy has him putting the tumbling thoughts aside. A sunrise bleeds over the horizon, beginning to lighten their way home. From this distance, the village no longer looks like ruins, but the silhouette of a giant rising from the snow. Jon holds his torch higher. 

Tormund walks just in front of him, their steps matching in a rhythm that puts Jon at ease. Everyone is tired but still the spirits are high. 

"I need a good washing," Tormund grunts. 

Jon agrees, he can feel the sweat drying in his hairline, freezing his roots from the winter air, and he yawns, "aye, aye." 

It seems no one else in the group does, leaving Jon to hope their families won't mind such stinky members. Quickly, Tormund turns around, ordering people to take the bison to the stores, and to get plenty of rest. With a kiss to Maeve's forehead, Tor turns back to him. 

"Follow me, there's a spring near here." 

Jon's feet drag him forward, separating them from the others as they take a path along the mountainside. Blindly, he follows. Step by step until they appear in front of an opening barely big enough for two men to walk side by side. Tormund enters, his torch lighting the interior as he ventures further in. 

Inside the cave, the humid air rests heavy in his lungs. Jon's eyes droop of their own accord, but he still watches as Tormund begins peeling away pelts. Jon follows suit, out of habit he reaches to remove his black fur, but finds the worn grey leather of the Free Folk. His shoulders quiver as he begins pulling up layers of deerskin. With each garment, he delicately bunches them in the corner furthest away from the spring. 

Tormund is already stepping into the water, his clothes left in a trail behind him. Gulping, Jon steps forward, focused on the way the Free man's muscles shift and change the contours of his back, entranced by the way the shadows on his skin bend to cover scars and burns. 

"Are ye'getting in?" Tormund asks, his voice bouncing from the walls, the hum of it making Jon's shoulders fall. 

In answer, he takes the last few steps to slip into the heated waters. The waves ripple and wrap around him, sneaking into the grooves of his spine and the sharp stinging of his thighs. Building and rebuilding homes had taken a toll on his body. He can feel it in the knots at his shoulder blades, or the twinge he has when he bends over. Even his knuckles ached when he pet Ghost as they watched the setting sun. Jon releases the tension at the base of his neck, until he can feel the way his hair pulls water to his scalp. Finally letting his eyes flutter closed, his quiet sigh is an echo in the cave, along with the lapping water. 

"It's been a hard year." 

Tormund scoffs, "A hard life. Can't remember the last time I was in these caves." 

Jon crinkles his nose, wondering how long it's truly been for the Free Folk. They had been fighting wars for much longer than the south had been. 

With more emotion than he intended, he whispers, "I can." 

When Jon glances over to meet Tormund's eyes, he can only wonder what his own look like because Tormund's are so soft in the flickering light of their torches. The way they truly see him, beyond what Jon feels. The way Jon hopes those blue eyes can see the one thing that Jon hasn't let himself say. 

"I was with Ygritte," He is surprised by the way his heart doesn't crumble in his chest by saying her name. 

"Truly kissed by fire that one." 

"Aye, she was." Jon stutters, the words heavy on his tongue, "I miss them." 

Tormund's hand on his shoulder surprises him–the weight of it settles the pit in his stomach–as he runs his thumb against Jon's collarbone. He finds himself leaning into it, greedy by taking solace in the slow pressure. Splotches of heated skin grow redder, though Jon prays to the old gods that the other man does not notice. 

"Too much has changed." 

Jon pulls away, swallowing past the lump in his throat. "Is it that bad?" 

Tormund's hand now rests on the edge of the spring, his knobby fingers rubbing together with such strength that the skin underneath is white. Jon feels the doubt bubble in him like a poison, threatening to steal his breath and engulf him in darkness. _Maybe he shouldn't have come._

"We grew up thinking those on the wall were monsters. That they were the reason we would lose those we love to the dead. Now? I would kill anyone who hurt you, little crow." 

His vision of those wild flames of hair goes blurry. "I don't want anyone else to die. Especially, for me." 

"Yet everyone in the south put all their faith in you to save them. To stop us all from burning," Tormund growls, "They were willing for you to die for them." 

The cave feels too small. Those jagged stoney walls creeping in on him as if they were beasts come to life. Scars burn like fire on his chest. He can't look away despite the tears falling from his eyes. Every fiber of his being wants to crawl into the larger man's arms, and never let go. His nails want to dig into freckled skin, to seek protection from a world that asked him to sacrifice everything: his sisters, his brothers, his honor, his love. 

Almost everything. 

Water cascades down his body as Jon stands, wading through the heat as sure as he can be, despite the tremors in his pulse. Tormund looks adamant, as if he would stand by his words until his dying breath. _Jon is sure he would._ It's the confusion in those bright eyes that stalls him from venturing further, that causes him to stand there looking down at this man that Jon would gladly die ten times over for. His courage falters. 

Tormund straightens, but Jon is wholly unprepared for the next words that come from the free man's mouth: 

"I'm not willing to lose you." 

His knees, already so unsure of holding the weight of his body, let go. He is ready to fall at this man's feet, to give everything, but Tormund catches him, wraps him up, and holds him instead. All the while something in Jon is at war with itself. Each sense lights up with every touch, yet his fingers feel numb and uncoordinated. As gently as he can, Jon brushes the flat of his nails in the hollow of Tormund's cheek, to cup his jaw and bring their lips together. 

New sensations prod at Jon's mind, sending shivers down his spine like ice. Tormund's lips aren't soft like any he had experienced before, but Jon craves more all the same. Relishes at how foreign and familiar it is kissing him in turns. The scrape of his full beard to Jon's scruff causes Jon to moan into the kiss. When Tormund seeks permission to enter, Jon opens his mouth with vigor. 

He feels intoxicated by the absolute softness of it all, so unexpected, but so addicting. Their movements match so perfectly. As the larger man pulls at his legs until Jon is straddling strong thighs, Jon melts. His thoughts don't make sense in his brain, as if they were pulled from sense with each drag of their lips. 

They pull apart gasping, begging for air to fill their lungs. Jon wants to seek out more, and more, and more. For the world could fall apart around them, and Jon could not care less. The genuine twinkle in those cyan eyes are the very embers of his heart. Jon smiles, he can even feel the way his own eyes crinkle at the corners and his cheeks stretch. 

"I'm not one for words," Jon whispers, "but please-" 

Tormund pulls him in again, stealing his breath to burrow into his lungs. His hope has fallen away to something stronger and Jon can't help but put a name to it. Their lips move in a rhythm he hasn't known before, too sweet, too new. 

"Don't need words, my white crow," Tormund gasps when they pull apart for a second. "You've come into my home, and it's where you'll stay." 

Jon nods, pushing back the stray strands on Tormund's face so he can place a kiss just under those blue eyes where the dark circles lie. Moving downward to peck at the laugh lines, and find Tormund's mouth again. 

Maybe he's overeager, or maybe it's the fact that he never imagined a world in which he could have this, but his frantic fingers find Tormund's large hands to cup them at the small of his back. Jon wraps his arms around Tor's neck, unsure from never having been in the position he finds himself in. 

But Tormund moves, touches dipping into the dimples at Jon's back, as palms grip the swell of his ass. He jolts, hands tangling in red hair as he pushes back against those mammoth hands. Even though Jon feels breakable, like he is a beat away from shattering, he gives in. 

It's been so long since a touch so intimate hadn't come doubled with doubt, Jon is pliant in Tormund's lap. Wandering hands explore his body and Jon let's them. A gasp wrenches out of his throat when a calloused fingertip prods at his entrance, pushing inside with a slight burn that shoots to his dick. Tormund nips at his collarbone, easing a finger so slowly that Jon loses his mind. 

Tormund's free hand snaps out of the water to ruffle in his pelts, growls growing deeper as he doesn't find what he's searching for. Finally, his fingers pull out a small vial, and rest it at the edge of the spring. It's with a hand returning to grip under his thigh that Jon's whole world shifts. 

Suddenly, Jon has to steady himself with his elbows on the cave floor, as Tor lifts his hips out of the water. Jon is sure that the blush reaches the line of fine, dark hairs under his navel, the air cold compared to the natural heat of the spring. 

Fingers now oiled return to their place inside him with a smooth glide that has Jon bucking his hips into the open air. He chokes on a shout, not knowing how to place the sensations he feels, but positive he wants more. He pushes back. Tormund's chest is pressed against his back, and the cold is chased away, leaving behind the pleasure. Every minute is more agonizing until Tormund adds another finger to scissor, brushing against something that ensures Jon can't hold back his moans. 

"Perfect," Tormund kisses along the line of Jon's spine. 

He reaches back, hoping to grasp onto something and finding Tormund's hand, _"please, more."_

Once again, he is manhandled, being twisted and pulled until they are face to face. Jon wraps his legs around the other's waist, feeling odd with being so comfortable in such a position, under Tormund and willing to give him everything. 

But thoughts like those no longer matter, the way they kiss now is filled with the delicate flame that had been lying dormant between them for so long. Jon craves it, more and more, when Tormund begins pushing in. 

Jon can't think, his mind is completely debase of any logic. The only sensation he can register is the way Tormund's calloused fingertips skid across the thin skin of his hips, and the pleasure-pain overwhelming him. How each rough edge ignites something deep inside him. 

He can't ignore the way Tormund's thumbs perfectly frame the v-shape leading to the inside of Jon's thighs. Something at the back of his mind keens at how it seems those war torn hands belong there. That those thick knuckles that turn white as they imprint finger shaped bruises onto Jon's hips are there to claim him. 

Moans slip past his lips, sounding like a different person entirely echoing in the cave. Jon doesn't want to think anymore, doesn't want to do anything other than succumb to the mindless rhythm of his hips against Tormund's. Jon's thighs shake, struggling to lift himself off of the throbbing heat inside him. 

Tormund's abdominals tense, the light refracting off the sheen of sweat. His broad arms wrap around Jon's body, dwarfing him. The tendrils of that fiery red beard scratch at Jon's chest as he nips under his ear, nosing at the base of his black curls. He cannot help his breathlessness, lost to the way Tormund's lips explore the planes of his neck. 

"Look at you," Tormund whispers, gentle in the most unexpected way. "You're just waiting to be doted on." 

Tears burn behind Jon's eyelids, welling up so much he has to squeeze them tighter. Using the fingers grasping at broad shoulders, Jon sinks them into Tormund's hair. Desperate to show what his words could never portray, Jon peppers kisses everywhere he can reach. Some he leaves lingering, like the one on the apple of Tormund's left cheek as he moans on a hard thrust. 

"My pretty crow." 

The pet name makes his throat seize, hearing the tender words like music to his ears. Jon could hear it for the rest of his life and not get tired of it. Tormund pushes in deeper, and Jon screams. 

When they return by late morning, cleaner than they had right to be, the hut is eerily calm. Not even Ghost seems out of place as he waits patiently in the living area. Both of them are wary as they step through the space, fingers gravitating towards each other when the ordinary exceeds his expectations. 

Jon huffs just as Tormund shrugs, turning to gather the things in his room. Except as he peeks inside, all his things were gone. A moment away from declaring that they had been robbed, Jon hears Tormund laugh from his bedroom. Stomping through the house, everything clicks. 

As if it had always been there, Jon's belongings are stacked right alongside Tor's: weapons, letters, clothes, and all. Jon can't help but think that the space looks lived in. 

Tormund grabs him by the shoulder, rubbing at the divet between his shoulder and collarbone, "not that I had a doubt, but I think they approve." 

It has been well over a year since Jon has last thought of the south. Of King's Landing and the horrors it had witnessed. Of the salty brine lingering in the air from a coast so close. Jon can barely remember the face on the weirwood tree in Winterfell. 

He dreams of it still, but when he is plowing land and teaching Maeve to wield a sword in the southron ways, the ache is the only thing he has. It is no longer right over his heart, but between his ribs, only noticeable when he breathes deep enough to catch the smell of a long forgotten hearth and a home no longer. 

The night is quiet and warm, Jon is missing his outer furs. Deep crimson leaves are vibrant in the rays of a silvery moon. They look like blood swaying against the stars,with the tree's face calm, looking almost pleased. Never before has he looked upon a weirwood and not feel its enigmatic pull. 

He doesn't come here to pray–never has. But, so much has changed, this small connection feels like the string he cannot cut. Nothing in the world can make him regret now, not with the way his life has turned. But still, he wonders of the woman who gave him life, if Lyanna Stark, the she wolf of Winterfell, held faith with the Old Gods. 

Jon understands why she did what she did, why she asked Ned Stark to keep his blood a secret. He understands it in the same way he knows he would hunt anyone who would lay a hand on either Eydis, or Maeve. 

Jon tears his gaze from the tree, to the fires nearby. People crouched, eating and talking, united as a clan in a way the six kingdoms never could be. The free folk sing and dance every night, ever celebrating, ever grateful. Echoes of their joy reach his ears. 

Indeed, too much has changed. Jon can hardly remember a better time in his life than now, he's not sure if one exists. 

Hands pull him upward, manhandling him over a beefy shoulder. Rumbling vibrates through Jon's tummy that he can recognize by the telltale hiccup of Tormund's laugh. Unwilling to give up, Jon punches as best he can upside down. 

"Fuck yeah," Tormund moans, "Have had an ache there all day." 

"You're getting old-" Jon groans as Tormund purposefully hops, rustling him like a sack. "What are you doing?" 

"In'it obvious? I'm stealing you." 

Jon decides to just slap his ass. "Let me down!" 

The upside down world sways with each step as they get closer to the campfires. A few low whistles come from people as Tormund leads him to their hut. He looks up only to find both of the girls waving excitedly, leaving Jon to count his blessings that he can hide his face in Tormund's shirt. 

Jon is once again jostled as Tormund opens their door to walk inside. The stone walls are warm, and Jon watches the dancing flicker of the fire on them. Tormund the shoulders into their room and dumps him on their cot. 

"Marry me." 

Jon feels his skin flush, the way the redness crawls down his neck and onto his chest. The heat emanates from his body just as strongly as it does from the hearth in their room. 

"Marry me as Jon Snow, take a husband, break no oath." Tormund kisses his blushing cheeks. 

Words either escape him, or stay stuck in his throat, because Jon can barely breathe. All he can see is Tormund in his light shirt, tendrils of light from the main room seeping through the threads, and basking him in a radiance. The slight breeze from the cracked open window lends the fabric to the wind. Tormund kneels by the bedside, in between Jon's thighs, and leans forward engrossed. 

"Ye'swore as Jon Snow," Tormund sounds vulnerable in the same way Jon feels everyday. "The world is done with that name-" 

Jon kisses the words from his lips, and replaces them with one of his own, "Yes." 

With the bright grin on Tormund's face, Jon feels a sudden ease burrowing into his heart. He pulls the giant closer as he lays back. After all this time, Jon has never felt safer than in moments like these. Strong arms keep Tor hovering above him as they frame Jon's head. All it takes is Tormund shifting forward to capture lips and pull the life out of him with tenderness. 

The creaking floorboard is the only warning they get when their door shoots open as Maeve and Eydis fall through. They are a mess of limbs, as the younger finds herself dwarfed under her older sister. Jon laughs openly, Tormund smothering his own glee in the space between Jon's shoulder and neck. 

Maeve is trying to scramble up, with no such luck, and Eydis doesn't bother trying. Trapped as she is, Jon wouldn't be able to tell she's uncomfortable. 

Jon swears they must have planned it, but with the way the troublesome duo are, he believes they might just be connected. When Maeve finally pulls Eydis off the floor, both girls ask at the same time: 

"Did he say yes?" 

Tormund rolls off of him, the older man covering his face as he tries to control his laughter. Jon pushes onto his elbows, looking at the girl's straight in the eye. 

"Yes, I did." 

The pair shout loudly, running onto the bed with all their force, and Jon gets the wind knocked out of him. They all are intertwined somehow. Eydis talks a mile a minute where she sits on her father using him like a chair, and Maeve is splayed half on Jon and rests in the space between them. 

"This is not how a stealing is meant to go," Tormund offers to no one in particular. His voice cracks, though, unable to uphold his put off charade. 

Jon smiles, thinking, _maybe not_ , but he wouldn't have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be 6k,,,, but it definitely got out of hand. lol whoops
> 
> follow me on tumblhell, [_@capitaaan_](https://capitaaan.tumblr.com/), and cry with me!  
> 
> 
> _ps be on the lookout for a fic dropping soon_


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